Page 32 of Wicked Vile King
Mama would approve of the language given the circumstances.
"Why?" He raises an eyebrow. "Pets wear collars, right?"
Like this maniac has ever had a puppy.
"Take it off," I demand.
He finally releases his hands from my face and straightens, adjusting his dark green suit jacket as he does. "Absolutely not."
"I'll tell them what you did!"
He laughs at that, like really laughs as though it actually amuses him, and the low gravel of his laughter rakes over every inch of me until I feel like I am covered in a thousand tiny cuts.
"You think they care?" he says with a chuckle. "Let me tell you a secret, pretty girl. As long as you aren't naked, covered in blood and cum, and walking down the hallways, they don't give a shit. We're here for one reason: to be contained. Rehabilitation isn't the goal."
"Liar!" I say as a fellow student opens the door and walks into the room. She sees me first, then Saint, and turns to ice in the presence of his holiness, before she starts mumbling apologies. I bolt around the desk and out of the classroom before he can stop me, slipping between her and the doorjamb.
I don't know where I'm going. I don't care where I'm going, but I'm going to remove this torture device from around my neck if it's the last damned thing I do. I'm crying and fumbling with the back of it, trying to untie it, when I stumble down the hall and turn a corner, smacking directly into a man in a white lab coat.
"Whoa, whoa there," the man says, almost falling over with me. "You okay?"
I sniffle and wipe away my tears to find bright green eyes assessing me. The man runs a hand over his mouth. "What am I saying? Of course not. You're crying. Of course, you aren't okay. Come on. Come with me. Let me help you."
"Ok," I hiccup, and God, it feels like I can't breathe.
My heart hammers against my ribs, and I feel faint, the world too bright and airy.
The man steers me down the hall to a room that's oddly out-of-place in these old, dark halls, with a white door and a frosted glass window at the top. He swipes a keycard at the door and ushers me inside.
"Do you need the nurse?" he asks me.
I shake my head. "I don't think so."
He nods and steers me to sit on a black leather bench adorned with brass rivets. I wipe away my remaining tears, and he pulls up a chair beside me. With two fingers, he brushes my hair out of my face and smiles at me, his gaze falling for a moment to the thing around my throat.
"I'm going to help," he reassures me. "Someone put that on you, huh? Here, let me get that off of you. Tilt forward and let me see the back."
I hiccup as I drop my head and the man lifts my hair. He fiddles with the restraint for a moment, and finally, the collar falls away.
I suck in a long, deep breath. I can finally breathe again.
The man lets me sit there for a moment, gulping for air. He hands me tissues and waits as I clean myself up before he says, "Who did this to you?"
I look up, and he smiles kindly at me. I think he's young for a doctor.
"I'm Dr. Cross, Willow. You have nothing to fear from me. I just want to help."
"Dr. Cross," I say, musing over his name, trying to remember what Trixie told me. This can't be the scary one. He doesn't look old.
"Willow," I add stupidly before I remember he already knows my name.
"I know," he replies, sitting up straight on his stool. "I was actually going to pull you from class for our first session together when you bumped into me, but I think this works just as well. Kismet, fate, whatever you kids call it nowadays."
He smiles at me, and it's so kind, so genuine, I can't help but smile back. He holds up the broken collar. It's made of thick beige fabric with a metal ring at the front. Brown leather runs all the way around it, and it locks at the back with a series of belt latches.
"A modified humane restraint," he explains, examining it. "How creative." He raises an eyebrow at me. "Want to share who did this to you, Willow?"
I almost blurt his name,almost, but Trixie's words come back to haunt me.
